


Grief Cancelling

by BrynTWedge



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Depression, Greg is struggling, Grief, Group Counselling, M/M, Mourning, Suicidal Thoughts, Support Group, post-TRF
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-27
Updated: 2019-05-08
Packaged: 2019-08-08 04:05:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 17,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16422092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrynTWedge/pseuds/BrynTWedge
Summary: Greg loses everything after Sherlock's suicide. Sherlock is dead, Mycroft isn't speaking to him, and his job only reminds him of the pain.With nowhere else to turn, he tries group grief therapy.





	1. Loss

**Author's Note:**

> Emotional venting story here, guys. I intend to continue with another chapter, the part of getting help, and then a last one with finding Sherlock isn't dead... but I can't really write more than just admitting to needing help at the moment. 
> 
> Tell me if you spot where I found the basis of each of his friends from; each is from a different show.

“Why don’t you start with why you’re here?”

He took a deep breath to steady himself. He nodded, his mouth still firmly shut. The eyes around him continued to stare, expectant, and so he closed his own whilst finding the strength to start.

“I…” he began, but his throat closed over. He cleared it, and decided to start with something easier to get the words flowing. “My name is Greg Lestrade. I’m here because… because there wasn’t anything else for me to do. I don’t know how to begin. Doesn’t feel like there can be any more beginnings now, really.”

Greg hesitated, letting the silence linger. The group said nothing, merely allowed him the time and space to talk.

“There’s just… you know how… how there are these moments, moments so big that everything else in your life just disappears? Sometimes those moments are good but not,” he coughed, “not for me. I never really was one to have great things happen to me but I got by. Hell now it feels like those days after the divorce were bliss.”

“I did something terrible,” Greg admitted quietly. “I wasn’t there for someone when… when I should have been.”

The quiet that followed the admission ground against him. It wasn’t the darkest of things he wanted to say, by far… but it was a start.

“Death was always around. I’d feel something, something grim, whenever faced with a body… but it wasn’t the same to have known who they were before they… stopped.”

He was met with a few confused faces when he looked up. “I’m a homicide detective,” he clarified. Some people seemed placated, whilst others became more uncomfortable. He ignored them.

“Sherlock… he was this whirlwind, and I got caught up in it. Didn’t like it at first, but he grew on you. I should have seen it, really. John hadn’t been there to see Sherlock when he was in his dark places, and so of course it was out of nowhere for him. But me… I was the one that helped him in those times. I should have _seen_ ,” he hissed, the anger and self-hatred spewing out of his breath.

“He was careless with his life and self-destructive in more than one way. He’d gotten better, though, by the time he met John and after that I guess I got lulled into a false sense of security, seeing how happy he was and finally comfortable with himself.”

Greg swallowed audibly. “I failed him. I did what I though was best but I was blind to what was going on… and so in trying to help both him and myself, I made it all worse. Worse enough for him that he…”

Tears pricked at his eyes and Greg found he couldn’t finish the sentence, concreting the fact that Sherlock committed suicide. He was beyond feeling shame at crying around people, strangers no less, and so didn’t bother trying to hide his upset.

  
“I was shocked, at first. And then the guilt kicked in. The pain…”

He received some supportive nods from the group. Everyone there had lost someone, and so he didn’t need to go into depths about the experience. He sniffled as he drew in another breath to steady himself.

“It wasn’t your fault, Greg,” a woman said gently. “No matter what you feel, you aren’t the cause of his death.”  
“I wish I could believe that.”

“He played you. You shouldn’t feel guilty over his actions when he was found out.”  
“Don’t believe the fucking papers!” Greg shouted, rage flaring through his blood. “ _He_ was played. He lost a war with a fucking madman who destroyed everything he worked towards. Moriarty did this.”

The man who’d spoken quickly shut his mouth. Greg panted as the anger subsided, and the grief washed over him anew. He held his head in his hands and cried silently for a moment.

“And I aided that monster to do it,” he breathed without taking his hands from his face.

  
“I came here because… I don’t have anyone else to talk to. I’ve lost everyone that mattered in my life.”  
“Sounds like you loved him,” the woman, Sam, said with compassion.

Greg smiled sadly. “I guess in a way I did,” he responded. “He was like a son to me. He was just a junkie kid when I met him, all skin and bones, and in a bad way. I helped him get clean. I helped him get out of that toxic flat and into somewhere half-liveable.

Greg paused and looked pensive. “Wasn’t just me, though. There was always Mycroft. The both of us, working together, always. He… he’d always been a parent to Sherlock. Lord knows their real parents wouldn’t help with anything hard. It was… it worked. As much as he resented Mycroft, Sherlock did at least recognise what Myc had done for him.”

Greg sighed. “Still, that resentment was always there and I took on the father-figure role in Sherlock’s life. Found himself a mother-figure too, one just as quirky as he was. Seemed things were going alright for a while there.”

“You brighten up when you mention Mycroft,” Sam said. A few people nodded in agreement. “Why do you say you don’t have anyone else to talk to? Surely you’d be able to go to someone that makes you look like that.”

  
It wasn’t said, but it was heavily implied into the room that it was Mycroft that Greg loved. Greg wouldn’t have denied it even if it had been explicit. “He’s gone too,” he said quietly. “Not dead but… won’t see me, or have anything to do with me. I bloody love him, had for a long time, and he just… shuts me out. I get that he’s grieving too, but he was so cold, so final… I couldn’t keep trying.”

He’d gotten so used to negative reactions in his life to ‘coming out’ that it was surprising that not one of them blinked an eye.  

“John blames me for Sherlock’s death. Mycroft too. As so he should. That only leaves work mates, and I won’t go to them… I blame _them_ for their part in it, but it’s mostly because they stand by what they did that I can’t face it. I’m seriously…” Greg let the sentence dangle, closing his mouth.

“It’s alright, Greg. Thank you for sharing. Here’s a place where you can just talk without fearing judgement, or feeling unreasonable. We all know grief, and that’s why it’s good to get together,” Jodie, the organiser of the group, said. Greg nodded and remained silent.

  
He listened as other members spoke – some were experiencing a recent loss, and others had been coming for some time. Greg was glad that there was a variety of people in the circle of around ten. He also found listening to others talk so openly, so bluntly, about things that he felt and thought, helpful.

Greg felt a connection with Sam, as she remained very sympathetic and kind to everyone despite feeling loss herself. She’d been coming to the group counselling for three months, after losing her eighteen-month-old baby. She tried hard to be as gentle with Damon, the man who Greg had snapped at, but it was clear that the cocky young bloke grated everyone up the wrong way with his brash and entitled attitude. It didn’t take Greg long to work out that he didn’t want to get to know him better.

  
At the end of the allotted time, Sam asked if Greg would like to join her, Rodney, and Helena for a drink. Having nothing else to do, Greg agreed. He figured that at least there was alcohol involved should he not get along with the group.

 

* * *

 

“So, Greg. Tell us more about your job.”  
“Nothing much to say,” Greg answered.  
“You said you worked in homicide. That’s more interesting than what Sam does, yet she talks about it all the time,” Rodney pushed.

Rodney reminded Greg of Sherlock in many ways, even just from the short time spent in his company. The man was brilliant, but socially awkward and clearly had trouble with understanding emotions. He had a fair share of Sherlock-esque arrogance, too, to go with that genius. It was both painful and enticing for Greg.

“It’s shit work, but important. Bringing justice to families, keeping people safe,” Greg said, deflated. “Couldn’t keep those important to me safe, though, in the end.”

Greg looked up as if realising what he’d just said. “Sorry,” he mumbled, and downed his lager.

“Don’t apologise,” Helena chided. “That’s something good about us. You don’t have to keep it together for us. You can say whatever you need to. I know that in the larger group it can be a bit challenging to really connect with people, but we do actually make good friendships… ones that don’t carry an expectation to appear fine to maintain.”

“Yeah we’re a sad bunch, but together and supportive.”  
“But at least we can let go and be more ourselves,” Rodney amended. “Not everyone in the group is that great to be around… and not because of mourning.”  
“Which is why it’s a shame you join us,” Helena laughed as she elbowed Rodney.

Greg stayed frozen, eyebrow twitching slightly, as he processed it. Rodney chuckled instead of getting upset, and just drank another mouthful of whiskey.

“We take the piss out of him, but it’s all done in good spirits,” Helena explained.  
“Which are now gone, so refill,” Rodney said, wiggling his glass in front of Helena. She huffed and took it, tossing her long black hair over her shoulder as she went up to the bar.

  
“The only real rule of our social group is to be brutally open,” Sam explained. “We have to hide everything from everyone else in our lives. It’s good to know that we have people we can be unashamedly honest with.”

“Yeah,” Greg agreed, not wanting to bring up that he actually didn’t have anyone else. He wasn’t exaggerating earlier.

“I talk to my husband sometimes,” Sam continued, “but he has his own group of friends to share with, and we decided it was better to not make all of our interactions about losing Tina. It works better that way for us.”

“And I have to be on top of my game for my team all the time. It’s not easy when you’re the one they look up to all the time to solve the problems. I mean, sure, they’re right to do it, but it’s a lot of pressure. Doesn’t leave a lot of room to be the weak one needing to lean on them,” Rodney said.

Greg could understand that position. He just nodded, not feeling like expressing himself or talking much – but at least he didn’t feel pressured to pretend.

Helena returned and handed Rodney his drink. The three of them chatted, but Greg didn’t join in. While it was nice to be around people for a change, it still felt like too much effort to interact much. None of them pushed him, but they did try to include him occasionally.

The more depressed voice in his head told him to drink as much as he could, but the anxious part of him didn’t want to get that intoxicated around people he barely knew… but was likely to see again.

“What are you going to do after this?” Sam asked him. Greg shrugged. She pursed her lips, and then chanced a supportive rub of the shoulder. “You need to plan some things to do with yourself Greg. It makes getting through the hours, the days, the weeks, easier.”

“What’s the point of getting through them, though?” Greg asked.

He was glad for the introduction of the ‘rule’ at the start of the evening, and that the three of them seemed to uphold it. It made statements like that easier to bluntly blurt out. Afterwards, however, he felt guilty for having shared that much. He sighed and slumped even more forward.

“Bet you’re regretting inviting me to spend time with you now,” he mumbled. He frowned as he looked up at the three of them. “Why did you invite me, anyway?”  
“Because you’re one of us,” Helena said simply.  
“How’s that?”  
“You like men,” Rodney said simply.

Greg didn’t say anything else, but just nodded. _Well, at least I don’t have to worry about whining over the pain of being rejected by the man I love._

 

* * *

 

Greg lay in his bed. The alcohol had left his system hours ago, and he’d not felt drowsy even then. Now it was near impossible to sleep.

He had to focus on taking one breath after the other. It was difficult to avoid letting his thoughts snowball as he lay there.

_There’s nothing left. Sherlock took it all with him. Work was so important to me, but I can barely face walking through the door anymore. Mycroft was the only thing that made life after the divorce bearable… and he wants nothing to do with me._

_He’s right to. I should have seen what was happening, the warning signs… and instead I made it worse and made him lose the only thing he’s honestly cared about since he was seven. Of course it’d be too painful to see me._

_I’ve done enough in life, I think. I gave it a good shot. Did my best. Tried to be happy, tried to make life better for others. Not everyone gets the fairy-tale happiness in life._

Greg couldn’t deny that he was wishing for suicide, but he didn’t really care. He knew that a suicide was what caused the mess in the first place. There was a difference in his case: he wasn’t leaving people behind. His gut clenched tightly as he thought it.

_Maybe meeting new people was a mistake. It’s better to be alone if it all ends in suicide._

“I wish you were here Myc,” he whispered into the night. “Why did you leave us, Sherlock?”

Greg sobbed quietly into his pillow. It had been a month already, yet the pain had only seemed to increase.

 

* * *

 

Honestly, Greg wished he was still suspended. He’d gone back to work once they’d cleared him, declaring that he hadn’t done anything wrong. Greg had guessed Mycroft had had a hand in that, but wasn’t able to confirm it.

He’d considered taking leave, but it didn’t seem to matter if he was at work or at home – life was still the same. It was easier to just be suspended; at least he felt like he deserved that. Taking leave was too much like a holiday, something he definitely didn’t feel worthy of.

No one said anything about how he dragged his feet or didn’t look anyone in the eye. Donovan seemed to be the same, openly stating that she was just doing her job and that it wasn’t her fault that Sherlock took his life for it. Greg couldn’t bear to be around her. Anderson was, at least, different. He was much more withdrawn and quiet, and Greg had to admit he preferred the man that way.

  
Work days were dull. He couldn’t feel anything driving him to solve the murders. He didn’t care if he stood out in the cold staring at bodies with no ideas forming.

It was when he encountered a suicide that things were different. The lethargic apathy that he felt was replaced with a surge of pain, guilt, and more recently… envy. He let Donovan inform any relevant parties of the suicide, snapping that she didn’t seem to care that people hurt from a person dying.

  
That night he sent Mycroft a text message. The man had told him not to, in a way that was not open to debate: _‘I’d appreciate it if you did not attempt to contact me’_. It’d been the nicest ‘fuck off’ that Greg had been told, but it somehow stung more. Mycroft had looked pained to say it, not angry.

Greg couldn’t hold resentment towards him for it. He knew that Mycroft wouldn’t be able to think of him without being reminded of his dead brother, let alone actually interact. He understood. He hated himself for it, and hated that he’d lost both Holmes brothers from his life because of his actions, but he understood.

**\- I hope you are managing to cope. I think of you often. If only being sorry could change things.**

He’d reworded the message several times before settling for that. He didn’t expect a response.

 

* * *

 

He went to the group therapy every week. Even though it was frequent, it still felt like eons between sessions. He still didn’t talk much. The first group session was the one he’d said the most at. He listened to the others and learnt more about their lives, and was glad that there was such a spectrum of kinds of grief talked about.

Sam had been right, in that it was easier to drudge through when there was a regular appointment ahead. That was the main reason, Greg figured, that the small group of friends met at least once a week as well. They invited him each time, and Greg had to admit he felt better to go than to not. Sometimes it was at one of their houses, sometimes at a restaurant or bar, and sometimes it was in a park.

Greg knew that it was good he was attending, both the group sessions and the ‘catch ups’, but the darker part of him said he shouldn’t interact with people. It wasn’t fair to them to get to know him, only for him to add more death to their lives. But as he couldn’t bring himself to consider doing anything about it, he was resigned to attending each time to just make it through to a time when he felt strong enough. Perhaps ‘strong’ was the wrong word, but it was accurate in the sense that it took effort to end his life.

  
He didn’t tell the others he thought about dying. He could tell he wasn’t the only one that thought of suicide, but it was from what people didn’t say. He could hear it in the gaps. He wasn’t sure if the others picked up on it, but it was clear to Greg.

  
Sam, Helena, and Rodney invited him to a pub night on the weekend. Greg declined again – he’d avoided meeting up with them twice during the week already – but said that he’d have his phone on him if they wanted to text him once he saw the disappointment in their faces. He couldn’t work out _why_ they would want his company that badly. He did, honestly, enjoy theirs… he just couldn’t bear to keep hurting them when they were so kind to him.

Saturday he actually received a text from Rodney.

**\- Hey Greg. It’s lonely without you here. Rodney**

Greg whimpered softly as he responded.

**\- It can’t be that different to before I started joining you. Greg**

**\- It really is. The girls are talking about shoes and I’m dying**

  
Greg didn’t know what to say to that. Rodney did joke about death more than Greg liked. It was the same as what a normal person would, but after their shared grief and pain, it felt awkward to use death as an exaggeration. At least, it did to him.

**\- You won’t have to listen for very long, then**

There. He felt like that was adequately in keeping with Rodney’s joke.

**\- True. It just sucks being the smart one, sometimes. I never get to talk about things I find interesting!**

  
A fresh dagger stabbed Greg in the chest. Rodney continued to remind Greg of Sherlock, and occasionally Mycroft. Fuck did he miss Mycroft. He wanted to just hold the man around the middle and sob apologies. He didn’t know what John was talking about when he said Sherlock’s death was Mycroft’s fault as well, but a sinister part of him wanted Mycroft to reciprocate his anguish and explain what his part in Sherlock’s suicide was – and then they could move forward together.

**\- My being there still wouldn’t help you then**

  
Greg sighed. His presence never helped anyone these days. He appreciated that Rodney, and the others, continued to try and talk with him, but he was very aware of always being left with the choice of bringing them down or feeling cut off.

**\- You’re good at listening. Paul was always good at that. You might not be able to respond, but just being interested is enough**

  
Paul was Rodney’s long-term boyfriend, before he’d been killed in an explosion at work. Rodney tried to keep talking about him in lighter times, to not always remember Paul with pain, but Greg could always see the hurt linger.

Before Greg could type a response, Rodney had sent another text.

**\- The girls say that you should be here, since I’m talking to you as much as if you were**

**\- I shouldn’t. I shouldn’t be bothering you this much. I’m sorry.**

**\- I texted you, remember? Besides, Helena’s on her phone too**

**\- Still. I’m not good to be around**

**\- None of us are, that’s why we’re good to spend time with!**

  
Greg wanted to just say goodbye and not respond again. He received a message from Helena before he could.

**\- Greg… it’s Helena. You know we’re blunt, so I’ll say it. I think you’re trying to distance yourself so no one will notice you disappearing. Sam and I have been trying to keep you involved because we fear you’ll just stop showing up one day. We like you and don’t want you dead. You haven’t said it, so I’m asking you plainly… are you suicidal?**

  
His throat closed up as he read the message. It was a long text, and only seemed to make him feel worse the more he scrolled. He hadn’t ever said it out loud. He only admitted it to himself. Somehow, stating it outright seemed to make it more real.

What should he say? He didn’t want to try explain his way out of it, or try and say it wasn’t serious. He knew that he’d be lying if he tried. He knew them well enough by now that they’d see through it anyway.

**\- Yes.**

He didn’t want to elaborate. The less he said the better, he felt.

**\- Please talk to me, Sam, or Rodney if it feels like it gets too much**

**\- I don’t know, Helena. What would that achieve?**

**\- We could help. We want to**

  
Greg didn’t want to be another burden on these people he’d come to call friends. How was he supposed to go to them and admit he felt like causing them all more pain? He felt ashamed that he was feeling so depressed when they weren’t… it was hard not to compare situations, and he felt like that out of everyone in the group (with the exception of possibly Ryan), he should be feeling the least affected by grief.

It wasn’t just grief, though. It was everything. Sam still had her husband and two kids. Helena lost her mother in a car accident she was involved in, but still had her wife and was loved in her job as a teacher. Rodney was more alone, but had his sister and a very close work team, and was still the adopted son in Paul’s family. Greg had no one, and was faced with death and reminders of what happened every day at his job.

He wanted to respond that he didn’t want help. He meant it in the way that he’d prefer to just go (if things came to that) without a fuss… not that he didn’t want them to help as a statement against them.

**\- You don’t need that on you as well**

**\- Please Greg**

**\- Greg, Helena has shown me her phone… we’re not just saying it**

He sighed and knew that if he didn’t agree, he’d just be upsetting them. He responded the same to both Rodney and Helena’s texts.

**\- Alright. I’ll do my best. Going to sleep now. Goodnight.**

 

Greg curled up under the covers and stared out into the darkness.

 

* * *

 

Six months in, Greg was struggling to get out bed. He’d been late to work twice last week. When his boss berated him for it, he said nothing and didn’t react to the threat of punishment. He honestly couldn’t see the difference if he kept his job or not.

The guilt was crushing him. He felt like he was trying with all his strength to just hold it together each day. He didn’t have any left to actually do his job. He certainly didn’t have it in him to interact with his colleagues.

It suited Donovan just fine that Greg wasn’t in her way. Anderson was more sympathetic. He tried to talk to Greg, but Greg hadn’t given him much in the way of response. He felt just empty, and didn’t care if Anderson saw it.

 

On a perfectly quiet Thursday, Greg was sitting thinking how utterly worthless he was, and reminiscing over his meetings with Mycroft. It hurt that he didn’t see the man anymore, but he understood why not. It tore him apart to know how much pain Mycroft would be going through, and that he was going through it alone because of Greg. He pulled out his phone and sent a text.

**\- Mycroft. I still think of you and miss you. I know I can’t undo the past, and so I will never be able to take back what I did to you. I’m sorry. You trusted me and I failed you, and him. I can’t seem to let either of you go, though.**

That was when the call came through about a hostage situation. Greg and his team were to go and take the perpetrator into custody. Greg didn’t do anything but rise from his seat and follow the mass of people headed for the door.

Donovan drove the car, relaying what information they had about the situation. They stopped at the abandoned warehouse, and Sally turned to him.

“Keep focused, Lestrade. He’s armed and desperate. We can’t risk a confrontation.”  
“Mhm,” Greg hummed. He opened the door.  
“I mean it, Lestrade. This is your job. You can’t spend the whole time wallowing in self-pity when there are people that need you to be on your game!” Donovan shouted.

Greg looked at her. He didn’t hide the shadows that lurked in his eyes, the pain in their depths, or the sheer exhaustion he felt. She pursed her lips at him, but didn’t apologise. After a moment where neither spoke, they got out of the car.

Greg walked up to the building’s door. His heart started beating faster, and it became difficult to breathe.

“I mean it!” a voice shouted through the doorway. “I’m not playing games here!”  
“Drop your weapon and exit the building with your hands above your head!”

The loudness of the responding voice made Greg grimace. The hostage was a child, and the man holding her was demanding ransom. It was obviously just a desperate man and not an organised plot, which had led the Met to simply surround the building and make demands for the child’s release.

He closed his eyes as there was more pointless back and forth shouting between the police and the armed man inside. He sighed, and opened the door.

“Lestrade! What are you doing?!” Donovan shouted. Greg ignored her.

He walked into the room and saw the man standing over the cowering form of a young girl.

“I didn’t say you could come in here!” he shouted, brandishing the gun. “Get out!”

Greg said nothing. He just slowly took a step forward.

“I’m not fucking around!”

Greg made no sudden movements, but took another step. Deep down he felt the significance of what he was doing, like he was taking one step closer to death. His heart pounded and his lungs screamed to heave for air, but it was the most alive he’d felt in months.

He wanted this. He knew, innately, that his life didn’t matter. He wanted to be rid of it anyway… but he could save this girl, and spare everyone who loved her the feelings he currently felt.

He knew that his team would be watching, but it didn’t stop him. He continued to drift closer to the gunman.

“I’ll fucking shoot you if you get any closer.”

Greg took in the man’s stance, his posture, and the way the gun shook in his hand. He doubted the man would actually shoot to kill, but would react violently to sudden movements.

“This has to end now,” Greg said softly.

“I can’t just… no! Let me go. Y-you can have the girl. Let me go and I’ll drop her off where you can find her.”

Greg looked down to the child, and then back to the man. He stared at the barrel of the gun. “No,” he said in the same gentle voice. He took another step so he was almost in arm’s reach of the weapon.

The man seemed to realise he wasn’t getting out of the situation at all, let alone with the money he demanded. He snarled and moved the gun to point more forcefully at Greg’s head.

There were gasps from behind him. Greg didn’t flinch, or so much as flicker an eyebrow. He let the moment drag on, staring into the man’s eyes. He then slowly lifted his hand and extended it, palm up.

“It’s over,” Greg said, his voice just louder than a whisper.

The man looked as torn as Greg felt. He desperately wanted to be shot; to be killed in the line of duty was a much more honourable death. At the same time he was terrified – too terrified to bait the man into shooting him.

The man made a choked whimper, and handed the gun over. Instantly, the room was flooded with police officers. It was a blur to Greg.

Donovan grabbed him and started screaming in his face.

“How could you be that idiotic? You weren’t even wearing gear! Not that it would have helped, you were mere metres away… he’d have been able to hit your head without needing to aim! What are you playing at? I told you to focus! You follow protocol!”

He didn’t react. She drew breath to start shouting again, but she froze, her face in shock. Greg knew she’d just worked it out.

“Leave it,” he mumbled, and tried to walk away. She grabbed his arm.  
“Lestrade… I have to report this.”  
“Donovan…”  
“I-I want to report this, sir.”

Greg screwed his face up in pain, but just sunk into himself. He knew she was going to and that she was right to. He nodded.

 

* * *

 

“Greg? You’re quieter than usual.”

He looked up at Sam. They were in Sam’s living room, having tea. She sat in an armchair, Rodney in the other, and Helena was on the couch with him.

“Should we be more than just worried?” Helena asked him, putting her hand on his knee.  
“How even does that work?” Rodney asked, his voice high-pitched.  
“I mean,” Helena emphasised, “if we need to _do_ something.”

Greg whimpered as he sighed. “I’ve been suspended,” he uttered.  
“My god, why?”

He slumped forward and looked at the floor. “Ignoring protocol and reckless endangerment of life.” They were the words his Super had said.  
“That doesn’t sound like you at all,” Rodney said. “What happened?”

“I…” Greg felt his throat close up. He had to admit it. He was so apathetic yesterday when it happened, but here, amongst these people he’d come to know as friends, the emotions overwhelmed him.

“An armed man had taken a girl hostage. I… I walked in to the building and… and I walked right up to him. Asked for the gun.”

Greg trembled and clasped his hand over his mouth to stifle the cry that escaped. The room was tense. Helena gentle wrapped her hands around his shoulders and pulled him into a hug.

“I wanted him to shoot me,” Greg sobbed. “I-I didn’t have gear, I… he was so close, a-a foot, the g-gun was… I was t-terrified, but I-I wanted it. Fuck, I’m… I’m a mess. Just… leave me.” His voice ended as a whisper.

“Greg, no.” Sam got out of the chair and knelt before him. “We’re in this together.”

“Wait they knew this and they just suspended you?” Rodney frowned. “They didn’t actually try get you help?”

Greg shook his head into Helena’s chest. He was so _done_. His mind screamed at him that he’d made a mistake, that telling his group of mourners would stop him being able to escape the torment of life, but he didn’t have it in him to conceal things from them.

“That’s ridiculous! Someone needs to go shout at them.”  
“Yes, Rodney, but we have more important things to do first,” Helena pressed.  
“Oh. Right. Of course. Uh… god, what do we do? Paul’d know. If only he were here.”  
“You wouldn’t be if he were,” Greg mumbled.  
“I suppose that’s true,” Rodney admitted with a sigh. “Well, he’d take you to hospital. Should we do that?”

Greg shook his head. He didn’t want to get involved in any of that. They’d just lock him in a room with strangers and either ignore him or tell him what to do, say, think, and feel. Then a week later, whether he was improved or not, they’d send him away again. He wasn’t about to get better. He’d be released back into the world where everything was exactly the same. Empty. Alone. Dark.

Sam’s husband arrived home. Greg didn’t see the point in trying to hide the fact he was crying.

“Hey Helena, Rodney, Greg,” he called out as he walked into the kitchen. Richard was kind, if a little gruff and oblivious, and so understood not to bring up the obvious in asking how people were. He received greetings in response, but the room still remained tense. Generally everyone left when Richard came home.

“How’s work, Rodney? Changed jobs yet?” Richard asked as he entered the lounge to give Sam a kiss.  
“The usual,” Rodney sneered, demeanour changing.  
“Sam keeps telling me what you do but I keep forgetting. You build bombs, don’t you?”

“No,” Rodney grunted, his jaw tightening. He then straightened his posture. “I work with a team to develop methods and technology for containing radiation from nuclear bombs or reactor meltdowns. I have a PhD in nuclear physics and one in engineering. I do not contribute to killing people.”

“Sorry.” Richard shrugged. “I guess I get confused because of Paul. I know you met through work and… I thought it was an accident in your lab or something.”  
“Oh yes, the pinnacle of a cosmic joke, that he, a simple paramedic, would be the one to die in an explosion when I’m the one that works with nuclear bombs! How hilarious!” Rodney shouted.  
“I didn’t mean…”  
“No, of course not. But it’s true, isn’t it?”

“Rodney, sit down,” Sam ordered. She fixed him with a forceful glare. Rodney sunk back into his seat.

“We should go,” Helena said to break the silence. “Sorry to intrude, Richard.”  
“No, no trouble. I’m glad Sam has people to spend time with.”

“Greg?” Helena moved her attention down to Greg, who was still resting in her arms. “Do you need to come home with me tonight?”

Greg shook his head. It wouldn’t help, and he’d just be an inconvenience.

“I… I just think you shouldn’t be left alone right now.”  
“I’m always alone,” Greg mumbled hoarsely.  
“Greg, you’re around friends right now. You’re not alone,” Sam said.  
“It always just disappears in an instant,” he responded sadly.

Rodney cleared his throat. “Greg, uhm… we… we just want to know that we’ll see you next time. You… you’ll call us, won’t you? If, uh, if you need. Me. Call me. I, er, I have my phone on me, and sleep is… well, you know how it is. Really. Just… even text, if things get…”

Greg grimaced. Rodney was trying hard to be supportive, but he wasn’t very confident in emotional matters. He wanted to promise that he would, but he didn’t know if he could make that promise. He still felt ashamed of getting to the point where he’d need to contact them, despite feeling bad enough to consider suicide in the first place.

He tried to speak, but a whine escaped his lips instead. He sighed, giving up responding. His friends didn’t seem to want to leave without getting the confirmation, though, and so the silence stretched on.

Greg’s mobile rang into the quiet. He didn’t move to answer it. It kept ringing, and he felt all eyes in the room on him… so he pulled it out of his pocket. He looked at the caller ID and his blood ran cold. Mycroft Holmes. He started to tremble.

“Greg? What is it?” Helena asked, still holding onto him. She undoubtedly felt him shake.

Greg dropped the phone. He couldn’t bear talking to Mycroft when he was like this. Emotions swirled inside him; anger flared at having been ignored for so long and now suddenly, out of the blue, Mycroft calls him, fear over the reason for the call, guilt stabbed painfully at the flood of memories over Sherlock’s death, which then caused the depression to choke him, and there was still the flicker of desperation to speak to the man he loved through all the pain.

The phone rang out.

“Why don’t you want to answer, Greg?” Sam asked, picking up the phone. “It was from Mycroft.”

The phone started to ring again. “It’s him again,” Sam sad. “It must be important.”

  
Greg couldn’t cope with the overwhelming surge of emotions, and so curled up into Helena and cried in anguish. He didn’t want to have to deal with this. He was so done with dealing with anything at all. He just wanted it all to stop.

“Hello, Greg Lestrade’s phone,” Sam answered. Greg strained his ears to listen, even if he couldn’t look over to her.

“No, he’s… unable to take your call at the moment,” Sam said diplomatically, looking over to Greg. Mycroft wouldn’t have known just how true it was. “Can I give him a message?”

“I see. Yes, that’s right. Uh, yes. For some time. Mhm. I know. No, nothing. Yes I agree with you, but… I don’t know if he’ll… alright, alright, I’ll ask… that’s not very… fine, I’ll tell him then. But how do you know… hello?”

Sam handed the phone back to Greg with a sigh. “Mycroft says he’s sending a car to collect you. Not asking if you want to see him, mind, but telling you that’s what’s happening. Apparently he also knows where you are.”

  
“He’d find me easy enough anywhere if he wanted to,” Greg moaned softly. He was entirely conflicted. He tried not to hope that Mycroft was caring for him, but also desperately wanting it. Not feeling up to seeing Mycroft, but wanting to at the same time.

“What a creep.”  
Greg looked to Sam’s husband. “Not when you get to know him. He’s just powerful, and used to needing to be able to find people very quickly.” Greg’s insides lurched at the memories of Sherlock.

“Greg… if you’re not up to seeing him, you don’t have to go. But, I’ll say this. It would be good for you not to be alone,” Helena said as she released him.  
“If he needs me, then I’ll go. I owe him that much.” He stood.  
“You don’t owe anyone anything, Greg.”

“I killed his brother!” Greg snapped, shouting. Tears continued to flow. “Maybe not directly, but he needed me and I failed him. I… I… I…” He couldn’t finish. He drew in a few shaky breaths as he tried to get himself under control.

  
Greg closed his eyes. “He has ignored me for half a year.” He felt like the energy oozed out of him, leaving him drained and lethargic. “I tried to talk to him often. This might be…” His throat closed up and stopped the words getting out. _This might be the last time I talk to him. This might be the only chance I have to say goodbye._

He looked at the people around him. All getting on with their lives… and here he was, stuck, unable to move on. _I’m a pathetic mess. Weak, undeserving of what I have. They’re… I’m…_ He couldn’t even finish his thoughts. A lead weight settled in his stomach and dragged him down with it. A resolution. _I might not see any of them again._

Greg swallowed. “Thank you.” He tried to smile, but knew that it came across as more sad than anything. “You’re all wonderful. You’ve cared so much for me and I haven’t been able to work out why. It’ll be ok, though. I want to see Mycroft.”

The faces looking at him didn’t seem comforted. “I meant… this might be a good chance to tell him I love him.”  
“You… you hadn’t told him before?”  
“Not so directly,” Greg admitted to Helena. She rolled her eyes dramatically.

“Men,” she groaned.  
“Oi!” Rodney snapped, but then laughed. “No you’re absolutely right there. Even Paul didn’t talk about his feelings for me for ages, and he was your typical sensitive in-touch-with-his-emotions kind of guy. I was a blabbering mess.”  
“That I believe.” Sam smiled good naturedly at him. “You’re still a blabbering mess.”  
“That I am. Greg… tell him. If he’s anything like me, he’ll be utterly shocked that his feelings were reciprocated. But if he is like me, he may not tell you that.”

  
Greg nodded. It was comforting in a way to know that the outcome of his profession didn’t matter in the slightest. If Mycroft shouted and kicked him out of the building, then he’d not be any worse for it. If Mycroft said he reciprocated before Sherlock died, but was incapable of love now, then Greg could just shrug and say the same applied for him. He still did love, but it was different. Like a ghost, an impression of what it used to be like, that emotion. The memory of it remains even if he felt too terrible to feel it.

If somehow Mycroft said he wanted him, then he… Greg frowned. That could be a little more difficult, because ending his life after that would be yet another horrible thing he’d do to Mycroft Holmes. _But the guilt wouldn’t bother me for very long, this time._

“It might do you good,” Helena said. “Who knows. Might get something to live for.”  
Greg shook his head. “It’s not fair to put that on someone.”

He received nods. The silence lingered again. Greg decided he didn’t want to leave awkwardly. “I’m gonna go wait outside. I’m… I feel like I need a bit of space.”

The group watched him go. Greg uttered ‘goodbye’ under his breath. He should have told them before standing up to the gunman, and should have made sure they heard it this time.

 

* * *

 

Mycroft looked… terrible. His face was lined with worry, he looked weary, and like he hadn’t slept in a long time. Greg instinctively sunk further down into himself.

“Gregory… I…”

Greg adverted his eyes. Mycroft never had trouble with words. _He is clearly still struggling and having to see me has made it worse._ “You don’t have to say anything. I’ll stop contacting you like you wanted. I shouldn’t have texted you.”

Mycroft exhaled deeply. “Gregory. I’m not angry at you for texting me.”  
“But…” Greg looked up at the pained face, “I don’t understand. Then why am I here?”  
“I made an error in judgement.”

Greg swallowed and nodded. He rose out of his seat. “I’ll just go, then.”  
“Sit, please.”

Greg obeyed without a thought. “Mycroft…” Greg sighed. He closed his eyes. “Please just tell me why I’m here, then. I… I’m too tired for mind games. If you need to yell at me, just do. If you’re going to send me away so you don’t have to think of me again… then do it. I don’t care. I know how painful it’d be knowing I’m still out there screwing things up.”

Greg looked at Mycroft. He looked stricken. “No… Gregory, no. I should have said this to you when it happened… none of this was your fault. I-I was too selfish to consider you. I’m so very sorry. I asked not to see you as a penance for my part in what happened, not because you were at fault. I hadn’t realised how things would turn out.”

Greg processed the information. His mind could understand what was being said, but his heart couldn’t believe it. “You… you don’t hate me?”

“Heavens no, my dear.”  
“Then why didn’t you-”  
“As I said, and error in judgement. I thought I was doing the best thing for you by keeping away. And because I hadn’t realised how seriously you would be impacted.”

Greg didn’t know what to say. It felt like the flurry of emotions had finally settled inside him and Mycroft had just shaken the snow globe up again.

“Gregory… I need to talk to you about what happened yesterday.”  
Greg’s cheeks flushed red. “Got suspended, that’s what happened.”  
“Yes, but it’s the reason for it that concerns me greatly.”

Greg looked away. “It doesn’t matter.”  
“On the contrar-”  
“Leave it alone, Myc.”

“Greg.” Mycroft’s tone changed from a refined concern to exasperated and desperate in a flash. “You tried to kill yourself.”

Greg said nothing, but clenched his jaw tighter.

“You didn’t admit it to the Superintendent, but based on Sargent Donovan’s report, and what I have learned since of your behaviour in the last six months, I have no doubt that was what happened.”

  
Greg continued to look away, focusing instead on the window inside Mycroft’s room at his club.

“Greg.”

He shifted his gaze back to Mycroft, and dropped the mask of indifference he tried to keep. Mycroft reacted only minutely, but it was enough to make him look honestly scared.

“Why didn’t you tell me? Or was that what that text really was?”

Greg didn’t answer.

“I’m sorry I didn’t realise at the time,” Mycroft uttered, dropping his head. He then fixed Greg with an intensely emotional gaze. “I cannot lose you.”  
“You don’t have a choice in that,” Greg whispered.

  
Mycroft flinched. His eyes darted about, thinking, before returning to Greg’s. “It may not be my choice,” he said slowly, “but I have the ability to take it from you.”  
Greg didn’t have the strength to challenge him. He just sighed. “I know.”  
“Is it just… Sherlock?”

“Of course it bloody isn’t,” Greg snapped. He then groaned and rubbed his face with his hands. “It’s everything. I… I can’t keep doing this. I’m done fighting this. I had enough trouble with depression before the damned divorce, and then all of a sudden I lost everything. Sherlock, the kid I helped protect and look after; my job that I’d poured my soul into suddenly reminding me of that failure, and the people there who pushed for it to end that way; you, the man I-”

Greg snapped his mouth shut. In his rant, he’d lost control of exactly what he was saying, too used to just complaining about it all in a chunk to the friends from the grief counselling group. Mycroft had gone very still. _No turning back now._

“The man I love.” He kept looking directly at Mycroft. The man still didn’t move, and Greg was starting to worry that he needed to breathe.

Mycroft inhaled. “You…”  
“You can ignore me.”  
“No!” Mycroft snapped, before trying to regain some composure. “Forgive me. No. I... I-”  
“Don’t. It’s not… I can’t feel it, now.”

Mycroft looked hurt. “Oh.”

“Everything good… I can’t feel anything but the despair.”  
“Ah, I see.” Mycroft nodded. “Understandable.”  
“Is it? I can’t understand it,” Greg retorted. “But I’ve given up trying to understand it.”  
“Yes,” Mycroft breathed.

“So how’s this going to work, then?” Greg asked, leaning back in his chair. Mycroft looked at him quizzically. Greg waited for him to catch up.  
“Well, I had organised your stay at a facility-”  
“How nice of you.”  
“It was the best decision to help you as well as keep you safe,” Mycroft explained.

Greg rubbed the back of his neck. “You’re right, I’m sorry. I guess I should be grateful you cared enough to want to do that. No one else ever has.”

Mycroft looked unsure what to say to that, and so skipped over it. “I am still inclined to do so. However I don’t want to jeopardise any potential feelings you have towards me by resenting my sending you.”  
“Why?”  
“I… reciprocate.”  
“You do?”  
“Yes.”

“Then why did you… how could you… six months, Mycroft. Six months of hell… I thought you hated me! That you couldn’t bear to think of me!”  
“Selfishness on my part. I couldn’t… well. Seeing what I’d helped do, and be unable to stop it… I was cowardly and hid myself away so as not to face that.”

Mycroft shifted in his seat and wrapped an arm around himself. “Hearing what happened yesterday was a cruel awakening. I promise I’ll be here to for you from now on.”  
Greg remained quiet, just looking at Mycroft in pain.

“And you?” Mycroft asked. “Will you promise you’ll be here from now on?”

Greg looked at his knees. It was wonderful – shocking, astounding, but indeed wonderful – that Mycroft actually loved him back. But all the blackness that had gripped him wasn’t just gone from hearing it. He still felt too exhausted to face trying it all over again tomorrow, and the next day, and the one after that. He hadn’t realised how quickly he’d come to _wanting_ to die. Not just being unable to see any other way, but actually wanting it.

“I can’t do that,” he croaked.  
“Then you have to understand what I have to do now.”  
“And how long do you think you can keep that up?”  
“Pardon?”

“This isn’t something that’s going to just disappear after a week. You can’t… if you’re expecting me to be all better, and to just be happy to start a relationship with you… it doesn’t work that way. You’ll get tired,” Greg said dejectedly. “And I’m already exhausted. I don’t want to end back here in a fortnight trying to justify why nothing’s changed.”

“Why do you assume I’d think it be that fleeting?”  
“Everyone does.”

Mycroft looked at him with a strange mix of pity and sorrow. Greg couldn’t keep looking. He heard Mycroft get up and walk over to him, and then suddenly Mycroft was kneeling before him.

“Gregory. You may not know this but I have also struggled with mental health issues, and so believe me when I say they are not problems that can simply be solved in mere weeks. If I were to be honest, I’d tell you I doubt we ever really are ‘cured’. But we do get better.”

Greg was touched by the sincerity of the low voice. “I don’t know how,” he whispered in response. Tears started to form in his eyes again.

Mycroft took Greg’s hand. “You don’t have to. You have to just trust that those who love you do.”  
“You can do better than to love me.”  
“I disagree, and it is hardly within my control either way.”

Greg chuckled, a forced sigh that was without mirth, but it was something. “I don’t see how going to a facility is going to stop me wanting to end it. All the reasons for escape are just waiting for me at the door.”  
“But so are all the reasons to stay. You’re just not well enough to see them.”

“I tried, Myc, I tried so fucking hard,” Greg cried. His voice was strained as he tried to stifle the sobs.

“Yes, you did,” he said gently. Mycroft then stood and pulled Greg into an embrace. “You did a marvellous job, too. You tried to talk to people. You made friends with good people, who care about you, and with whom you can be open. It’s alright to try and still need help.”

“They’d be better off without me.”

“No one is, Greg. You have to believe that. You are a wonderful man who is struggling. Your friends recognise that, too. One of them called me before you arrived… on your phone, so you can imagine my confusion… and informed me about the situation and how concerned they all were that you were serious.”

Greg tried to think when that could have happened, and then he remembered leaving his phone on the couch in Sam’s house when he went outside for air whilst waiting Mycroft’s car to arrive. He, strangely, was able to feel touched by the gesture.

“I assured her that I would take care of you.”  
“I’m more work than is worth it,” Greg mumbled.  
Mycroft sighed with a high-pitched whine. “Oh, love, no. You are worth everything.”

Greg couldn’t believe it. Instead he whimpered softly. “So you are going to hospitalise me?”  
“Hmm,” Mycroft hummed, running his fingers through Greg’s hair as he held the silver head against his chest. “If you object, then I can make other arrangements.”  
“Please.”  
  
“But only if you are a willing participant.”  
“What do you mean?”  
  
“You have to want the help, Greg. If you are going to focus all the remaining energy you have on trying to fulfil your suicidal urges, then I will have no choice but to send you where I can be assured of your safety.”

  
Greg let himself just breathe for a few moments, listening to the sounds of life against his ear. Mycroft’s heartbeat was fairly rapid, and it seemed to only reinforce his feelings of guilt.

“I can’t just stop feeling this way.”  
“I’m not asking you to. I understand that. But you have to do what you can to resist, and to ask for help when you feel you cannot.”  
“So to constantly admit when I’m failing?”  
“No,” Mycroft said firmly. “Admitting you need help isn’t a weakness, Greg. I will need to hear you ask for it if I am going to do as you wish me to.”

“… Now?” Greg wasn’t sure he was able to honestly make that request. The pain was still too great, the allure of it ending too strong. And, he was afraid of what it would mean to commit to staying alive.

“Yes. And every time you need it. Any time of day or night, no matter where I am or what is happening, that you will ask for my help to keep you safe.”  
“That’s too much of a burden to put on you,” Greg uttered.  
“No. To me, it’s the most important of duties I have.”

To Greg, it still sounded like it was unreasonable to expect Mycroft to be there, each and every time he felt a danger to himself, without judgement or hostility. He was afraid of finding out how far Mycroft’s limit was.

“I want to be there for you, Greg,” Mycroft whispered. He was still holding onto Greg, almost as if he was afraid to release him.

Greg closed his eyes. _Mycroft needs to help. He couldn’t help Sherlock, and he’s afraid of losing me too. I guess that there always is this option when he’s decided he’s had enough of me._

“Help,” Greg breathed.  
“Hm?”  
“Please. Help me,” he uttered, pulling his face away from Mycroft’s chest to speak clearly. It was still barely above a whisper, but it was all he could get out.  
“Always.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone. More emotional things here. There'll be one final part to this fic. 
> 
> Greg tries to get better, has a stumble, and Mycroft is there for him and shares some things about himself.

Greg curled up with his hands cupping the back of his head. He couldn’t stop feeling shit. Every beat of his heart felt like it was too hard, too much effort to keep the rest of him alive. He wanted to stop breathing, but he didn’t have the strength to fight against his body’s natural functions.

He was in Mycroft’s home, and had been there for two days. It was like being taken completely out of his life, and yet being trapped within it at the same time. Mycroft still had to work, and so was gone for a large portion of the day.

Greg wasn’t sure if Mycroft normally had a butler (or whatever the woman’s job was) in the house all day or if that was something Mycroft had organised to keep an eye on Greg. He wouldn’t put it past Mycroft to do something like that, if only to ease his own anxieties about leaving Greg unsupervised.

He didn’t know what time of day it was. It all blurred together. There was only time Mycroft was with him, and time Mycroft wasn’t. Even day and night weren’t separated; he kept the curtains closed as he couldn’t bear to look out into the world.

The roiling in his gut subsided, and Greg unfurled himself. He took some steadying breaths. The emotions seemed to inexplicably rise over him like a tidal wave, and wash him away until he found his footing after the water subsided.

He wanted something to do. He’d been restless before collapsing on the bed. He needed to occupy his mind somehow, to avoid it fixating on the urges to harm himself or end his life.

Watching the telly hadn’t helped. He couldn’t connect with any of the characters on the screen, and it had ended up just making him feel worse as if the shows were mocking him. He wasn’t interested in any of the books Mycroft had. He’d tried to read one, but it honestly didn’t matter to him enough to get absorbed into the world.

He eyed the open suitcase on the floor by the built-in wardrobe. He suddenly realised he had that fish game on his phone. He’d installed it a while ago, and it was a good mindless activity that at least kept his attention.

Greg dragged himself up off the bed and plodded over to the case. He dug through the clothes he hadn’t put away, and hoped that his phone would be in there. He wasn’t the one who’d packed, in the end. Mycroft’s employee had; the man had been too afraid Greg had something stashed away in his room to let Greg back in there. If he’d felt any better, Greg might have been bothered by it.

He found the phone and returned to the bed to put it on charge. He watched the screen light up, and wished that it could be that easy for him to get some energy back to come to life. He input his passcode, and was about to select the fish app when his phone started buzzing.

Multiple text messages came in at once, and he was notified of several missed calls. He pressed the calls app and his stomach clenched in guilt. One missed call from Sam, one from Helena, and five from Rodney. His heart beat faster and his chest was tight as he checked his text messages.

Rodney had sent the most, again, at twelve. Sam had sent two and Helena five. He didn’t have any idea what order they all came in, and so he opened Sam’s first.

**\- Greg, how did it go with Mycroft? Is he helping you?**  
**\- Greg?**

Helena’s were next. He didn’t feel quite prepared for what he’d find in Rodney’s messages. Of the three of them, Rodney was the one that would panic the most and his grief harboured the most guilt of not being there for someone – Paul wasn’t supposed to have been working that day, but Rodney had cancelled their plans, so when Paul’d been called, he went in.

**\- I hope things are a bit better now that you’re getting some help**  
**\- I know you avoided it, but getting help is good, Greg**  
**\- Greg? Please answer. I know you might not be allowed your phone wherever you are, but we just want to know that you’re safe!**  
**\- If staff are seeing these messages, please allow Greg to contact us so we know he’s alright**  
**\- Greg, Rodney’s really not coping with the silence. I haven’t seen him like this since the first meeting. Please… any word will do**

Greg was even more afraid of looking at the messages from Rodney now. _I should have known they’d notice me disappearing! I have been utterly horrible, terrible… I should have told them when Mycroft took me. They deserve to know what’s been happening. Is it worse that I honestly forgot about them and my phone?_

**\- Hey mate. I really hope your Mycroft is looking after you**  
**\- We’re all worried but Sam said that Mycroft said he was going to take care of you. It’ll be for the best, even if you don’t see it, yeah?**  
**\- I can’t really say Mycroft will do a good job, since I don’t know him. I hope he realises just how serious this is, and isn’t one of those condescending bastards that thinks you should just be better than this illness**  
**\- Greg? I’m not being insulting… I mean grief is utterly horrible and shit, but it’s not an illness as such… I was meaning, depression. You had it before the grief and it’s made it worse. That’s all I mean. Not that it’s your fault. You know I had anxiety before all this and in many ways grief’s made that worse, even**  
**\- Um could you respond, if you get a chance? It’s just been a while and I usually get a response, and I’m trying not to panic but given what we talked of and then the silence… it’s upsetting me.**  
**\- Greg please**  
**\- Why won’t you answer our calls?**  
**\- Greg… we’re not angry. We just need to know you haven’t done anything**  
**\- Please**  
**\- Greg you’re my friend, and I don’t have many of those. I can’t lose you**  
**\- Answer me dammit! I can help! If that Mycroft isn’t helping you then I bloody will. I promise you that**  
**\- No no no no no Greg you have to still be there I can’t please let me help I won’t abandon anyone again it was my fault last time I won’t let it be my fault again this time oh god no tell me you haven’t I would have helped**

Greg dropped the phone. His hand was shaking. The overwhelming feeling was to escape this new torrent of guilt and pain, but it was equally matched with the anger and self-hatred that by ending things, he’d cause the pain that was so obviously being experienced by his friends.

“Why, why why why?”  
He grabbed at his arms as he curled up as tightly as possible.  
“How could I be so terrible? They don’t deserve someone like me. How could I do this to them?”

He wanted to respond, he wanted to alleviate their concerns… but he was terrified of their response. The due anger that awaited him, the hatred, the spewing of their pain… he didn’t want to experience it, but he knew he deserved to.

He screamed out loud – something he rarely, if ever, did – and sobbed in his ball.

“Gregory?”

Greg tensed and fought the impulse to turn and look. Mycroft closed the door with a gentle click, padded over to the bed, and sat at the foot.

“What is it? Can I help?”

His voice was soft and concerned. Greg hadn’t realised he’d been home. “How long you been here?” he mumbled.  
“I just arrived home. I was putting my coat in the wardrobe when I heard you.”  
“Sorry.”  
“No, don’t apologise. I would have preferred to have been called so that I could have been here to help sooner.”  
“Sorry.”  
“That wasn’t… I didn’t mean to make you feel guilty over that either, Gregory.”

Greg didn’t respond, and remained laying on his side with his arms wrapped around his middle.  
“Is this ok?” Mycroft asked as he placed a hand on Greg’s leg and rubbed softly.  
Greg nodded. The sensation was nice. He was a tactile person, and found physical affection very soothing.  
“Helps,” he uttered.  
“Was there anything in particular that has brought this on?”  
“Phone.”

Mycroft didn’t answer, undoubtedly wondering what Greg meant by it.  
“Forgot to turn it on. Plugged it in to play a game, saw all the missed calls and texts.”  
“I see. I’m sure your friends are merely concerned.”  
“That’s the problem!” he snapped, looking into Mycroft’s eyes.

Greg breathed for a few moments before looking back at the bedding. “They’re concerned about me. I’m a monster who let them stay concerned. I didn’t think about them at all since I went to see you. They’ve tried to contact me, and failed, because I didn’t remember to plug my phone in.”

“I believe they will understand,” Mycroft ventured. He moved his hand up to Greg’s shoulder and softly stroked it.  
“That’s not the point! The point is that I’m horrible to have done it.”  
“You’re not,” Mycroft objected. “You’re just not well.”  
“Rodney’s freaking out. I’m afraid to respond now.”  
“Why?”  
“Because… how can I face that, knowing I’d caused that upset?”  
“I’m certain they will be more relieved to know you are alive.” Mycroft’s voice was tense and pained. 

Greg shuffled so that his head rested on Mycroft’s lap. “I’m sorry to have brought up feelings of Sherlock.”  
“It’s not your fault,” Mycroft said. Greg thought he was going to continue, but he remained silent.

“I really should respond… but the thought just makes me want to hide under the covers.”  
“I can do so, if you wish?”  
“I… would you?” Greg knew it was taking the easy way out, but he allowed himself this small concession given the situation.  
“Certainly. Do you wish me to call them, or text them?”  
“I… it doesn’t matter. Just use my phone, it’s right there.”

Mycroft nodded and picked it up. It didn’t surprise Greg that he knew the passcode.  
“It appears Rodney has been the most anxious,” he commented as he looked at the recent calls. “Shall I call him?”  
Greg honestly didn’t know. Was it better to tell him first? Greg shrugged and nodded.

Mycroft dialled and put the phone to his ear. A moment passed where neither man moved, until Mycroft flinched at the noise from the receiver – loud enough for Greg to hear.

“This is Mycroft Holmes-”  
Mycroft was cut off by a loud shriek. He winced and continued to talk.  
“No no, I assure you, he is still with us. I apologise on Gregory’s behalf, and mine, for the radio silence. I’m glad to hear, and I’m certain he is grateful that you care. No; he had no time between meeting me and being sent to my home. I could not risk taking a chance. A regrettable eventuality, indeed, however not done with the intention of causing anyone distress. Not well, no. I’m glad you understand. Um…”

Mycroft looked at Greg, pursed his lips, and then turned back to face the wall. “I don’t believe that would be wise at this stage. I will have to ask him, but I would implore you to be gentle, should he wish to talk to you. He is fragile at the moment.”

Mycroft then looked back to Greg with an apologetic expression. Greg didn’t have it in him to dismiss or argue it. Mycroft nodded his thanks, and continued.

“Yes. Well, I will leave that up to him, however I shall warn you that should I notice it causing him any upset, I will take his phone away. He needs to recover and I will do my best to do that – I’m sorry, but keeping you and his other friends happy whilst I do it is a secondary concern.”

Mycroft nodded and smiled; Rodney must have said something he approved of. It occurred to Greg that Mycroft and Rodney probably would get along quite well. He made a mental note to introduce them some time.

“Yes, and you.”

Mycroft then placed the phone down on the bedside table. “Rodney was quite relieved to hear that you are alive. You have made a dear friend in him.”  
“He’s a good guy. He’s been through some stuff, though. Makes sense that he’d freak out a bit. You two’d actually hit it off, you know.”  
“My heart is reserved for you and you alone,” Mycroft said with a hint of displeasure.  
“No, I meant… as mates.”  
“Oh. Well I look forward to meeting him at some point.”

Mycroft carded his fingers through Greg’s hair as they sat in the quiet for a moment. Greg needed some time to work up the courage to ask more about the conversation.  
“Was he angry?”  
“No. He was upset that he had been left in the dark, but understood that you meant no harm. I believe his joy to hear that his fears had not been realised overrode any resentment.”  
“Good,” Greg said simply. He felt undeserving of such consideration.  
“Shall I contact the others?”  
“No, Rodney’ll do that. I don’t feel up to even listening to more right now.”

Mycroft bent forward and placed a kiss on Greg’s head. Greg’s heart thudded at the action. It was so tender and loving, but without expectation. He snuggled closer so he could bury his face into Mycroft’s belly.

 

* * *

 

Greg had been seeing a psychologist once a month since Sherlock killed himself, but Mycroft decided that it wasn’t enough and had organised a psychiatrist to see him twice a week. Part of him felt like it was excessive, but it paled in comparison to the part that said any less would be too far apart to even consider trying to make it from one session to the next.

He didn’t know what was supposed to happen now. He didn’t want to continue his existence just fighting to survive between sessions each week. Mycroft helped, he really did, but he couldn’t see a way out of the emotional prison he was in.

He was hesitant to get closer to Mycroft because he didn’t want to cause him more pain. Greg knew that Mycroft could do better than him. He also knew that Mycroft had gotten attached, and therefore would hurt if Greg gave up. He was still aware enough to realise how bad it’d be for Mycroft to lose him to suicide only seven months after losing his brother to the same.

He was trying. Honestly trying. It might have been only for Mycroft, but he was trying at least. He couldn’t see how things would get better. He knew he couldn’t start a relationship while feeling so terrible – that’d hardly be fair or a good call – but everything else in his life seemed pointless. He’d tried to get somewhere and achieving those things had only left him marginally willing to continue.

Greg was almost glad for the grief. Not in that he was glad Sherlock was gone, but that it was enough of a strong emotion to push him from being overwhelmed with being unable to cope to not even bothering to try cope. He knew it’d be worse if he’d lost his job without Sherlock’s suicide; he’d still be trying to get by somehow.

Feeling like he was going to actually have to find some way to manage filled him with such anxiety that he couldn’t bear to think of it. Feeling like he was going to end it, some time, was easier.

Yet the idea kept creeping in. Slowly, painfully, it took root in his mind that he was going to stay alive and _have_ to face his demons. Not only that, but somehow win… or be stuck with them forever.

 

* * *

 

“You look terrible, Greg,” Rodney said as they met up. “But you’re here, so I’m glad.”  
“You don’t look so great yourself,” Greg mumbled. He took a seat at the table.  
“Yeah. Sorry. I kinda…”  
“Don’t be sorry for caring,” Greg said quickly. “I appreciate it.”

Rodney nodded and swallowed uncomfortably. He obviously had something on his mind, but wasn’t sure how to ask appropriately. Normally he’d just blurt it out and not care who had a problem with it, like a certain consulting genius, but today he seemed on edge.

“Just ask what you want to, Rodney.”

He looked a bit taken aback from the bluntness, but nodded. He cleared his throat. “Uh, are you still… wanting to commit suicide?”

Greg looked down at the table. _Am I? I still feel like I want to, but I’m hesitant because of Mycroft._ “Yes,” he answered quietly. “But there’s more to consider now.”  
“So… you’re not planning to do anything, even if you might want to?”  
“Basically.”

Rodney continued to nod to himself, as if assuring himself of the words. He then braced to ask another question.  
“So um… do you… is, uh, is it Mycroft, then? The, uh, considerations.”  
“Yeah.”  
“Are you like… did you tell him? That you loved him?”  
“Yeah,” Greg repeated. He didn’t change his demeanour, and so Rodney gave him a pained look.  
“He didn’t return it?”  
“He did, actually. That’s why it’s complicated now.”  
“Oh. That’s good, though, isn’t it?”

Greg hesitated. Yes, it was good that Mycroft had feelings for him back. But it also was a roadblock in his path to ending the suffering. He still wasn’t in a well enough place to consider that a positive.

Rodney seemed to understand what Greg’s silence meant. He leant backwards, nodding in wider nods this time. “I think it’s good, then,” he uttered. “I mean you don’t have to do anything about it, but if it’s making you stop yourself, even a little, then it’s good.”

“He’s been rather good to me these last two weeks.”  
“I’m glad. He’s been refusing to let us see you, but giving us updates, at least.”  
“I think he’s a bit protective of me still. I mean, I haven’t exactly been coping that well, and he’s been there to help. Wonderfully, I might add, but he’s seen it… the, um, stuff. How it gets. And given how he wasn’t able to stop his brother… well, he’s making sure this time, I think. I was escorted to the restaurant today and the guy’s just out the door.”

Rodney nodded. “He wouldn’t let me take you to get steak, either. Pizza he allowed. I’d say he was controlling, but I get it. I really do.”  
Greg hummed his agreement. _I mean, I’m not about to slit my wrists with a steak knife, but I have to appreciate what Mycroft’s going through in this as well_.

“How are you doing, though?” Greg asked, feeling suddenly uncomfortable with the attention.  
“I’m… getting by,” Rodney answered diplomatically. Greg just kept looking at him, making him shift uncomfortably. “I had a bit of a freak out when I thought you’d… you know.”  
“Sorry.”  
“No, I get it. But it’s kicked me back into not coping that well. Paul… he’d always be there to help when things got tough, you know? And now… he’s not there. I really feel the loneliness in times like these.”  
“If I’d known, I’d’ve made Myc let me see you earlier. He was just trying to look after me and not stress me. Helping a mate means more to me.”

Rodney smiled sadly and offered thanks, and with that, the conversation died off. Thankfully their pizzas arrived, and so they both tucked in.

“Helena was stressed about the reviews from her kids, but she got them back a couple of days ago and they were all wonderful. She’s been pleased.”  
“Oh good. And Sam?”  
“Well,” Rodney hummed, “So-so. Her husband has been hinting at trying for another baby. It’s putting her in a difficult place.”  
“Yeah, that would.”

Greg tapped nervously on the table. He didn’t know what to say more. Rodney sensed the awkwardness, and so decided to fill the silence with mindless chatter.

“The group’s got another new member, but he’s not that nice. Had a go at Ryan the other day. We had to speak to him in private and explain the situation, and that if he wanted to continue coming, he had to be nice to everyone.”  
“Poor kid,” Greg said. “I mean, I know I get a bit judgemental sometimes. I can’t help it, to compare situations. But I guess the more I learned about what went on in Ryan’s life, the more I understood. Sure it was only a dog, as some might say, but that dog was the only positive thing in his life for a long time. He went through hell and high water to keep that dog safe from his abusive family… he deserves to grieve as much as anyone.”  
“Yeah. New Bloke didn’t know about that at all, and had a go at him right off. Still doesn’t really think it ‘counts’, but we told him to leave his attitude at the door.”  
“‘We’?”  
“Alright, Sam did.”

Rodney laughed, and Greg couldn’t help but join in. It was good to see friends sometimes, when the expectation to appear fine all the time wasn’t looming over his head. He had to agree with Mycroft’s decision to keep some distance from physical meetings, since he was finding it a bit overwhelming that there were strangers about for some peculiar reason, but felt he was clear-headed enough to interact without it all being depressing.

 

* * *

 

Greg curled up on the bed that was now ‘his’ whilst staying with Mycroft. He felt so conflicted. He wanted it all to stop; the pain, the crushing hopelessness, the despair… but he felt so trapped because doing anything about it would hurt his friends. And Mycroft. He wasn’t sure exactly where he and Mycroft stood.

His mind told him that he was trembling, but his body seemed to not have the energy to actually do it. Breathing was getting difficult and his heart pounded, the urge to act without consideration of consequences bubbling up inside him. It was like trying to keep his head above water in a storm to keep a rational mind.

The lethargy was replaced with energy, causing him to jump up and leave the room. It felt like a dark, sinister energy though.

When he walked in front of the armed man, he’d felt apathetic about his own life or the consequences of his actions. It was an entirely different feeling now; so charged but all directed towards self-harm, knowing exactly what would happen and not wanting it, but feeling powerless to stop himself.

The inability to control himself, or the possibility of that, was what scared him. It’d been a choice last time. He’d still been in control. He couldn’t quite understand how he could have so little control over _his own_ actions. 

He didn’t know where he was going. He was just… going. He felt the need to be somewhere dangerous. Not necessarily because he intended to harm himself, but just to try abate the swell of anxious desperation in his chest.

Mycroft had a balcony. Greg suddenly turned and walked towards Mycroft’s room, not caring about breaching privacy. He walked straight through it, not looking side to side, and then out onto the balcony.

The hammering of his heart continued, but he felt like he could at least breathe. He gripped the ledge. _Breathe in, breathe out_.

His body suddenly started to shake. _What the fuck is wrong with me?_ Greg closed his eyes and just listened to the sounds of the city. It wasn’t helping. Instead it made him feel overwhelmed with bustling haste.

He dropped to his knees, and then curled up on his side. He didn’t care if anyone was watching. He just needed to let himself do this. He didn’t have the strength to control himself enough to appear fine as well as restrain himself – or rather, fight against a part of himself from doing something he’d regret. _Well, I wouldn’t regret it, would I? That’s the thing._

“Mycroft,” he whispered to himself forcefully. He clenched his eyes together and then opened them, and pulled out his phone.  
“Greg?”  
“Mycroft,” he uttered into the receiver, his voice choked.  
“What’s happening?”  
“I… too much, and then… I-I couldn’t…”  
“Where are you? I’ll make sure someone gets to you as soon as possible.”  
“B-Balcony.”  
“Greg? Hold on.” Greg felt both comforted and ashamed at the panic in Mycroft’s voice. “Just tell me which balcony, and I’ll be there, ok?”  
“Yours.”  
“Just stay on the line, alright?”

Greg nodded, and then shook his head realising that Mycroft couldn’t see him. He sniffled, aware that he’d started to cry, and then hummed in agreement.  
“I can’t explain why,” he uttered.  
“You don’t have to. I’m glad you called me, that’s all. I’d never try to judge you for seeking help. You’re doing so well, Greg. You don’t have to be keeping it together like nothing’s wrong, you just have to get through each day at the moment.”  
“I shouldn’t–”  
“I know the feeling, since I feel that way myself all the time, but I can at least tell you that you do not have any expectations from me to appear fine.”

Greg could hear Mycroft get into a car. Guilt stabbed at him. “I’m sorry, you shouldn’t have needed to leave work… you… what you do is important, and I–”  
“You are the most important thing to me, Greg. Nothing I was doing would have stood in the way from me getting to you. I have alerted the staff, and they should be there with you now. I know you don’t find them comforting, but they will keep you safe until I’m there.”

Greg looked around and saw a man standing in the doorway. His cheeks flushed red and he tried to hide himself. Shame gripped him tightly. “Mycroft I-I don’t want them to–”  
“I will not send him away.” Mycroft’s voice was firm, leaving no room for negotiation. Another wave of guilt hit him at how difficult he was making life for Mycroft.

“I’m sorry,” he breathed.  
“Greg? Greg, talk to me.”  
“No, I mean… not that, I… I’ve been making your life hell for a long time.”  
“Gregory Lestrade, you have certainly not. Don’t think that, please.”

Greg still felt like he was in the spotlight, and just wanted the guard to leave. “How long until you’re here?”  
“Another twenty minutes, I’m afraid.”

It was like a stab to the chest. “I…” He didn’t know what to say. He couldn’t demand the guard leave, he couldn’t force Mycroft to arrive faster, and he didn’t think he had it in him to pick himself up and walk past the man staring at him.

He groaned and sunk further into the floor. “Why do you bother, Myc? You put so much effort in and the prize is just … me staying alive. Surely it can’t be worth it.”  
“I would do anything for that prize, Gregory, do you understand me?”  
“What happened with Sherlock wasn’t your fault, you know,” he said softly. “You don’t have to atone for anything by keeping me alive.”

There was a pause until Mycroft spoke quietly. “Is that what you think I’m doing?”

Greg said nothing. He did, honestly, but he hoped that Mycroft’s declarations of care weren’t untrue.

“Gregory,” Mycroft continued in the same soft, emotional voice, “I honestly love you. I want to do all that I can to help you for you, not because of guilt on my behalf over Sherlock’s suicide. Knowing how deeply it affected you hurts me greatly; while I feel obligated to take care of you in the wake of it all, none of that is to do with seeking atonement.”

“It’s difficult, Myc. It always seems the way that people are only interested in keeping you alive rather than helping you live. You’re trying hard to keep me alive, and to help me live… I can’t help but fear for the day that you get tired of it.”  
“You’ve talked like this before, and all I can do is remind you what I said then. I am here however long you need me, and beyond that, however long you _want_ me.”

Greg said nothing. He desperately wanted to believe it. It wasn’t that he thought Mycroft was lying, it was that his brain just couldn’t seem to convert understanding that knowledge into feeling better.

“I feel so guilty when I see you, Myc. I just see everything I took away from you.”  
“You did nothing. Moriarty is the one that caused of all this. You did your job. You stayed involved because you felt it’d help in the long run.”  
Greg sighed and sniffled. “Doesn’t stop the fact that the only place I have left to escape to is my work, and all I see there is people who get along with Donovan and Anderson. Even people who still are friendly to me… they’re also pals with those two. Donovan more than Anderson, really.”

“And this is difficult for you?”  
“Well of course it is! Don’t you know what it feels like to have people change _nothing_ despite what went down?” Greg sat up, feeling more energetic enough. “It feel like betrayal, Mycroft, when someone’s hurt you, done wrong, and the people you thought cared for you behave like it didn’t matter? By interacting with her like always, they’re condoning her behaviour. I don’t want to be alone but I can’t stop feeling the pain knowing that those few I have to talk to are also complacent–”

“Yes,” Mycroft answered, cutting Greg off. “I know what it feels like. I spent the majority of my life under those circumstances. To know that everyone whom deemed me acceptable to communicate with also willingly condoned the horrors their friends, colleagues, peers, even family have done to me. You are not wrong to feel hurt by it, Greg.”

“Oh.”

“But I think you have to step back and realise that Donovan wasn’t being malicious in her intent. She was being idiotic, but following protocol at the very least. That she made you doubt Sherlock isn’t a heinous infraction she committed against you.”

“Fine! If that’s how you feel about–”  
“Gregory listen.” Mycroft’s voice was loud and stern, and it made Greg stop. “You have the right to feel betrayed. You are valid in being hurt. But you cannot expect everyone to treat her with the same sense of misdeed that you believe is warranted. Not because they shouldn’t support you or make a stand that such behaviour is unacceptable, but because humans are selfish. They can only see what happens to _them_ , and that is all that matters to them.”

Greg heard the sneer, the icy venom in Mycroft’s words at the end. Obviously the man had been through a lot in this regard, and suddenly Greg felt guilty for insinuating that Mycroft didn’t know what it was like.

“Donovan will keep her friends at work, even if they are still kindly to you. I understand this is not a particularly big issue for you in the grand scheme of things, but it is obviously important to you, as you say work is all that you have left. I would disagree, but that is for another conversation.”

Mycroft sighed into the phone. “Greg… humans are horrible and terrible creatures only interested in themselves or what benefits them. You know this better than most. They will not sacrifice something good in their lives on principle regarding something that affects someone else.”

Greg sunk. Mycroft wasn’t making him feel better. He was right, and it was comforting to know that Myc did actually understand… but his outlook was just as bleak. “How can I face them, then?”  
“I don’t know,” Mycroft responded honestly. “I’m fortunate that I don’t have to be friendly with the people I work with. It wasn’t always the case, but I am grateful for the ability to wield power over those I interact with.”

“Why? Makes you feel better if you can order them about? I don’t see how.”  
“It is not the ordering,” Mycroft admitted. “The power to control others at my whim is a comfort to me more because it implies that they are not important to me. That they are insignificant compared to me.”  
“Geez, you have a complex,” Greg interrupted.  
“Perhaps, but let me finish. When they are insignificant, then so are their insults and hatred.”

Greg was not expecting that. He swallowed. “You like power so that, what, you can feel better about being isolated from them?”  
“Yes. They set me apart and mocked me. It was always made clear that I was not one of them. I understood this early, and embraced it. I wasn’t ever going to be accepted or liked by people. No one would ever step out of their comfort zone to help me, or stand up for me. So I made sure I was the one to be able to help myself. They made it clear I wasn’t on the same level as them, so I chose to be above them rather than below.”

“Sounds lonely,” Greg said after a beat.  
“It is.” Mycroft’s voice didn’t hide the sadness there. “I try not to let on to anyone, especially Sherlock, but yes… I am lonely.”  
“I’m sorry, Myc.”  
“It’s not your doing.”  
“I’m still sorry you’re more alone now.”

“Please don’t make it even worse,” Mycroft whispered. The tone struck into Greg’s heart.  
“I don’t want to,” Greg responded, laboured. He was fighting the emotions to stay inside, but they were catching in his throat. He closed his eyes and just breathed.  
“I’m here for you, Greg. The pain you feel regarding your work will fade. You’ll still have that again.”

Greg nodded, despite being on the phone. “I know I shouldn’t feel so bad about Sally.”  
“Don’t dismiss your feelings, Greg. That’ll only make it worse. Acknowledge them.”  
“I feel like I can’t be a good man and be valid in feeling this.”  
“Depression makes you hurt a lot more than is rational. Experiencing extremes of emotion even errantly doesn’t make you less of a good man. That includes misplaced guilt.”

Greg hugged himself. “Why’s it so hard to say these things when the person is there staring at you? I couldn’t say any of this to you or anyone before.”  
“You get distracted with reading visual cues,” Mycroft answered. There was a pause. “I’m almost there, Gregory. The car is pulling up.”

Greg looked over towards the road. “Yeah, I see it. I’ll see you soon, then?”  
“Yes.”

He hung up and just stared at the phone, mostly to avoid looking at the man who’d stood there listening to the entire conversation. He appreciated at least not being man-handled back into the room.  

Mycroft appeared in the doorway. He looked stressed, but restrained. He mumbled something to the man at the door, who then nodded and walked away. Undoubtedly he’d not gone far, but Greg was grateful that he’d not be watching anymore.

Greg didn’t move as Mycroft stood there, indecisive. He just stared, breathing, trying to wrestle with the emotions inside that were screaming at him that he needed to hide away and act normal, all the while making him feel too terrible to face life.

Mycroft shuffled forward and knelt before him. He reached out to take a hold of Greg’s knees as he sat there curled up, but withdrew his hands.

“Gregory, I-I don’t know what to say. But you can talk to me. About anything.”  
“Thanks,” he mumbled. Now that he was faced with Mycroft, his words seem to fail him.

Greg trembled, clenched his jaw, and drew a shaky breath. He lent forward, and Mycroft sensed his need for a hug. The man opened his arms out and bridged the gap, embracing him. Greg felt his eyes well with tears.

“It’s alright, Greg. Come on, come off the hard floor.”

Greg sniffled and nodded. Mycroft helped him stand, and didn’t let go of his hand as he directed him into the bedroom.  
“Sorry,” he grumbled. “It’s your room, I shouldn’t’ve–”  
“Nonsense. I understand you weren’t prying, Gregory.”

He let there be nothing more said on the matter. Mycroft’s bed was comfortable. The one he was sleeping on while he was there was as well. He hung his head, staring at the floor. Mycroft hadn’t let go of his hand, and he appreciated it immensely. It grounded him.

“Thank you for… you know. Coming. And for sharing with me,” Greg said softly.  
“Always.”  
“I feel like I get you more now than I have ever.”  
“It is the way things go, but I appreciate the sentiment.”  
“Mycroft,” Greg started, and looked up at him. “Not all people are like that, you know. Some do care, like you caring for me. I-I mean maybe not about everything, and maybe not enough to give up their own ways in a stand for someone else but… but they care. I’m sorry that your experience makes you think otherwise.”

Mycroft was still at that. “Thank you,” the man uttered.  
“It’s all to do with those you know, I guess. The friends I have from the group therapy… they are there all through the depression. They don’t run or demand anything of me to not let it out. I’d never realised that was possible before. Everyone I’d known up until then always held this expectation that I had to be fine and coping alone. Made me feel like I couldn’t express anything else for a long time.”

Greg knew he wasn’t exactly making a whole lot of sense, continuity wise, but he just needed to say what he was thinking. Mycroft didn’t respond, but just stroked his thumb over Greg’s hand.

“I don’t want to be alone.” Greg stated. “You said you were lonely too.”  
“Yes.”  
“I…” Greg’s throat closed over and tears spilled down his cheeks. “I’m so sorry, Mycroft, for contributing to that loneliness.”

He’d said it before, but it hadn’t been with the same emotional sincerity. It’d been entirely from his own guilt, and while that played a big part of it still, there was something more – remorse, perhaps – that was desperate to escape. He leaned into Mycroft and sobbed.

“It’s not your fault,” Mycroft said, his voice just as sincere. It struck into Greg’s heart. “I wish I could take this pain from you. It hurts me deeply to see you suffering this much, Greg. I would give anything to be able to end that pain, but I can’t.”  
“I know you would,” Greg mumbled into Mycroft’s chest.

He heard a high-pitched whimper escape Mycroft’s lips. “Maybe one day I can,” Mycroft whispered.  
Greg didn’t know what he meant, but the hug was reassuring and the intensity of the emotions were calming down. Crying, and that heartfelt apology, seemed to have broken the dam.

 

* * *

 

Therapy was helpful. He attended the sessions that Mycroft had organised in addition to the group therapy that Greg still wanted to attend.

His friends welcomed him back warmly. The other members of the group seemed to be glad he was there. He told them what had happened, enjoying the freedom to be so brutally honest, and that he had a stronger support network now with Mycroft involved.

Helena was fishing for details regarding his relationship with Mycroft after the first session ended that Greg returned to. He’d honestly just said that there were no details, that they weren’t going to start anything exactly until Greg was in a more stable place. Sam had agreed that smart, and commended Mycroft’s honour.

He went out for drinks or a meal with the three of them again regularly, usually after the weekly group session and once in the week separately.

Greg was finding it easier to contemplate making it to the next planned activity in his week. There were many regular things on, and by focusing on those, it helped. His medication had been altered after the day on the balcony with Mycroft, and he seemed to notice an improvement. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to allow him the space to work on doing other things to improve.

Rodney had suggested he learn guitar again. It had been years since he’d picked up one, but he remembered he really enjoyed it as a kid. After some shaky first practice sessions, he managed to get the feel of it again. He decided to practice a song to sing to Mycroft.

Mycroft. The man had been amazing. He’d always responded when Greg messaged, he provided as much attention and support Greg needed, and was always there for physical reassurance when it was needed – and a lot of comfort even when it wasn’t.

Greg was starting to question if he was ready to start an actual relationship with him. His general mood was improved over the recent months, and he felt like he’d be less of a burden now. He wasn’t sure how to bring it up, though. They had a nice equilibrium, and even though Greg knew Mycroft was open to more, he was nervous at shaking up the system.

Mycroft hadn’t done relationships in a long time, and Greg was worried about overwhelming him. Even though he’d improved, he was still leaning heavily on Mycroft. The last thing he wanted to was to push him too far.

 

* * *

 

It was the one year anniversary of Sherlock’s death that had kicked Greg back into a hole. Even going back to work hadn’t affected him that badly. Mycroft had sensed that it’d be a danger night (Greg had to chuckle at the wording, because the sharp stab of being reminded of Sherlock hurt too much to do anything else) and had taken Greg off work and spent the whole day with him.

They’d visited the cemetery, delivered flowers, and talked about Sherlock. Mycroft always looked uneasy, as if careful about what he was saying. Greg wished he’d relax more, but couldn’t bring himself to confront Mycroft about it. As much as Greg wanted to be there as a support to Mycroft, he knew he shouldn’t try take on more than he was capable. He was there as much as he could, with smaller things, but anything to do with Sherlock was a toxic subject that eroded all of the foundations Greg had rebuilt.

He sat in the lounge, just staring into nothing. Every breath was slow and felt too painful. It was dark, but he didn’t care. Mycroft had responded to an emergency, as Greg had said it’d be fine. He wished it was fine.

He thumbed over the names in his phone. He didn’t want to bother them again, his friends, but he felt at a loss to do anything else. He felt so alone.

**\- Hey, Rodney. Just saying hello. What have you gotten up to today?**

It wasn’t what he wanted to talk about but it was conversation at least. He waited for a response, but none came. He knew not everyone had their phones on them at all times.

**\- Hi Helena. What’s been going on for you?**

Greg wanted someone to answer but couldn’t blame them for having busy lives of their own.

**\- Hey Sam, how’s things?**

He waited another few minutes, but then tossed his phone onto the couch and sighed. He rubbed his face with his hands. He wished that he was better than this. He wished he could just text them and say he really needed them right now. He wished Mycroft wasn’t off dealing with a crisis. Most of all he wished that Sherlock was still alive.

 

* * *

 

Greg paced about, not knowing what to do, but feeling like he was desperate for something to occupy him with. It’d been hours since Mycroft had left, and none of his friends had responded. He’d tried to rationalise that they were just busy, that they weren’t ignoring him, but the sinister voice in his head said otherwise.

He’d made himself a pizza for dinner. Mycroft always told him how unhealthy pizza was, but Greg just wanted something enjoyable. If he was honest with himself, he didn’t enjoy it. It was just not _un-_ enjoyable.

He couldn’t focus enough to occupy himself with work. Any time he got the slightest hint of motivation, he was instantly overcome with lethargy and landed himself back in bed.

**\- Sounds like you’re busy Rodney. I miss our chats. We’ll have to find a time when you’re able to come out for drinks again.**

He liked spending time with Rodney, and was rather disheartened that the man wasn’t responding. He knew that, like Sherlock, Rodney could get absorbed in his own little world when working on a problem. _It’s likely that’s what’s happened, Greg. He still likes you._

**\- Say, do you know what Rodney’s up to? He sounds busy. I mean so do you, so I hope I’m not bothering you.**

Helena was nice, and Greg hoped she wouldn’t mind him texting randomly. It was late, and so he didn’t want to bother Sam too much given that she had a small child. He continued to text Helena.

**\- Mycroft’s busy tonight too. It’s left me a bit bored and lonely, you know?**  
**\- I don’t blame him. He’s an important man.  
** **\- It’d just be nice not to spend the anniversary of Sherlock’s death alone.**

There, he’d said it. If Helena was ignoring him, then at least she knew exactly why Greg was bothering her too much.

 Greg sat on the couch, elbows on his knees, looking out into space. He sighed, hung his head, and then stood. He picked up his guitar and started to strum a tune; sad, painful, and longing.

 

* * *

 

It was almost four in the morning when Mycroft came home. Greg had stayed up, unable to sleep. Mycroft looked haggard.

“Are you alright?” Greg asked as Mycroft collapsed into bed.  
“It’s been a very difficult day.”

Greg nodded. He hated that he’d spent the day feeling sorry for himself when Mycroft was suffering more with the loss of his brother as well as having to put it aside for national emergencies.

He sat up in the bed, unsure what to say. It hadn’t been long that they’d been sharing; originally it started as a way to ease the anxiety for them both the night after Greg’s breakdown on the balcony. Neither of them questioned the bedsharing continuing after that.

“How have you managed today?” Mycroft asked him as he righted himself.  
“Managed is about the word.”  
“I’m sorry.”

Mycroft looked troubled. Greg suddenly realised that the man would want to change, and as they’d not really discussed where they were in their relationship, probably felt uncomfortable doing so in front of him.

He got up to leave, but Mycroft turned around to face him and so he froze.  
“I can’t keep doing this,” he said, and Greg’s stomach flipped. “I’m sorry.”

Greg recoiled and tried to take an even breath. He nodded slowly. “I get it.” He stood and tried to remain stoic, despite the crushing pain inside. “It’s ok. You don’t need me weighing you down. I’ll just–”  
“No, Gregory, that’s not… sit down.”

Greg obeyed and Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose. His tie was a askew, the top button undone, and waistcoat open. If it wasn’t so clear how agonised he was, it would have been exciting to see him so undone.

He waited. Mycroft paced, making an attempt to start talking, but thinking twice of it and returning to his pacing. Greg wasn’t sure what was going on; he still held a dread that Mycroft was going to end their relationship (what little they’d started, in promise of more when things were going better), but something inexplicable told him it wasn’t that.

“I have to tell you something, and it’s going to be difficult to hear. You have to understand that this wasn’t anything to do with you personally.”  
“Okay,” Greg said slowly, worried.  
“I wanted to avoid it for as long as I could because I wanted to hold on to this fantasy, but knew it was coming. I, in all honesty, shouldn’t reveal this to you. However, the threat has been neutralised so I cannot in good conscience do my best to help you and not help my best.”

Greg processed the information, but even going over Mycroft’s words thrice he couldn’t work out what he was talking about. At first he was panicking that maybe John had hurt himself (or worse), but then neutralising a threat came up and he was thrown.

Mycroft took a breath, stared him right in the eye, and said, “Sherlock’s alive.”


End file.
